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Learn something. Right. Because reviewing the basics that were sewn into his fiber after ten years of doing them on the daily was going to get him somewhere other than bored. For Chrissake, he couldteachthese classes. What on earth could he possibly learn?
Blowing out a breath, Sam chose a seat in the back row of the academy classroom and—like any good firefighter—took in his surroundings. The class of recruits was small at twenty-eight, and judging by the lack of chatter as they entered the classroom and found seats, they hadn’t been in the program for very long. At least, not long enough to form any sort of friendships and alliances. If the looks of rampant curiosity both he and de Costa were getting were anything to go by, though, the recruits had been here long enough to know the two of them were definitely outsiders.
de Costa sat in the front row (because of course she did), and Sam couldn’t help but notice the military precision of her posture, her shoulders firmly set beneath her navy blue uniform shirt and her body at full attention behind her desk. Her black curls were pulled into a tight bun that rested at the center of her nape, her hands folded tightly over her desk, and if he didn’t know better, he’d guess she was on guard.
Weird.
“Good morning,” came a voice from behind Sam, and he turned to locate its owner. A white man with thinning gray-brown hair and an impeccably pressed uniform bearing the nameplate Captain W. Nolan moved to the front of the room. Sam didn’t recognize him, but he did catch the unmistakable air of authority in the man’s presence.
“No doubt, you’ve all noticed that we have two newcomers,” Captain Nolan said, sparing only the barest glance at Sam, then Lucy, before continuing. “Firefighters Faurier and de Costa will be with us for the next three weeks. They’ll be treated as recruits, just like the rest of you, and subject to the same requirements, both physical and academic.”
A tiny ripple of surprise moved through the room, with half the eyes on him and the other half on Lucy, and shit. Maybe Sam did owe her more than a couple of apricot turnovers for this.
Sitting up straighter in his chair, he focused on Captain Nolan a little more intently. “As you all know, your academy training encompasses three areas of instruction, and they are of equal importance. Emergency medical response, fire suppression, and physical fitness.” Nolan ticked off each one on his fingers. “Each of these skillsets is integral to a firefighter’s ability to perform his or her job. Today, we will be focusing on Rapid Medical Intervention training.”
A recruit a few seats away from Sam blew out a breath of disappointment. He caught himself quickly enough, but Nolan hadn’t missed a thing.
“Recruit Maddox. Something to say?”
Maddox paused. “Well, sir, I’m a little confused. We’ve been in this program for over a week now and we haven’t even seen any smoke, let alone actual fire. It’s thefireacademy. So, respectfully, I guess I was wondering why we’re spending so much time on all this medical stuff since we’re not here to become EMTs.”
Nolan seemed to process this. “Does anyone want to take a swing at helping Recruit Maddox understand why we haven’t done any fire suppression drills yet, or why we focus so much on emergency medical response?”
Sam’s hand moved of its own volition, raising into the air at the same time as Lucy’s. Captain Nolan’s brows lifted in surprise, and okay, yeah, that made two of them.
“Jumping in early, I see,” Nolan said, looking at Lucy. “Recruit de Costa, help your classmate out. Why do we focus so much on emergency medical response here at the firefighter academy?”
“Because firefighters actually respond to more medical calls than anything else, so the skills are necessary, sir,” Lucy said. “And even when wedorespond to fires, many people are injured and we need to be able to care for them as part of our response.”
Nolan nodded. “Exactly right. As it turns out, fighting fires is only one part of being a firefighter.” Turning his gaze to Sam, he said, “Recruit Faurier. Care to answer the second part of the question? Why haven’t there been any fire suppression drills in the week and a half this class has been here?”
Only a week and a half? Christ, what a no-brainer. “Because they”—at Nolan’s lifted brows, Sam cursed the ridiculous impulse that had made him raise his damned hand—“uh,we…aren’t ready for that yet.”
“No?”
The meaning hit him just a beat too late—thanks, ADHD brain—and his pulse knocked harder at his throat. It doubled in intensity as Lucy turned to look at him, the shock on her face clear, but screw it. She’d wanted him to get something out of this, and backing down wasn’t really his style.
“No, sir,” Sam said. “Fighting fires isn’t something you can just impulsively jump into. There are no do-overs. You either know what you’re doing or you get burned. And you need to know what you’re doingbeforethings catch fire.”
Nolan appraised him for the longest two seconds of his week before nodding. “Exercising caution is a good rule for everyone to keep in mind, I think. Even the most seasoned firefighters can use a refresher when it comes to foundational skills. Which is an excellent segue to today’s lesson.” Taking a few steps toward the laptop set up on the podium at the front of the room, Nolan pulled up a PowerPoint slide deck and smiled. “Recruit Faurier, since you’re on a roll, why don’t you walk us through the Rapid Trauma Response scenarios on the screen so we can work on those foundational skills you were telling us about?”
A groan built in his chest. But then Lucy’s gaze was on him again, unlocking something deeper than his reluctance, and he said the only thing he could.
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Malachi pulledhis jacket around himself and held the lighter in his hand with the same care he’d use to touch a lover. Not that he really had experience in that arena—he’d always been a social outcast, a weirdo, a freak. He’d heard all the names, some whispered, others not. But Malachi didn’t care. None of those people at his high school, or later, at the handful of menial jobs he’d held before finding work at the docks, mattered. They were just like his father, assuming he was stupid and useless and strange because he was a loner. But they were wrong, all of them.
Malachi wasn’t useless at all. He knew how to harness the sort of power that could ruin everything in its path, how to start it and speak to it, how to get it to do his bidding. He could destroy every last one of those assholes if he felt like it, burning everything they loved to the goddamned ground. His heart beat faster, excitement fizzing through him at the thought of the clothes and cars and even the people, all disintegrating into ashes, destroyed. Unrecognizable.
But no, he thought, forcing himself back to the dark, vacant lot where he stood, bracing himself against the cold. He couldn’t think about that now. He’d faced a setback two days ago, and he needed to stay focused. The warehouse had caught fire, and yes, the damage to the structure had been significant. Malachi had read about it in four separate online articles—it hadn’t taken long for the local news outlets to post them. One of them had even had pictures. The dark thrill he’d gotten at seeing the parts of the warehouse that had been consumed by the flames hadn’t lasted, though, not knowing he’d ultimately failed. The warehouse was supposed to have burnedto the ground. The plan had been solid. Malachi had known because he’d practiced. He’d paid attention. He’d seen the fire, and it had seen him.
But then those fucking firefighters had gone inside, and everything had fallen apart. Damage didn’t equal complete destruction. You couldn’t rise from the ashes unlesseverythingwas ash.
Malachi gripped the lighter and paced, dead, frost-encrusted grass crunching under his boots. He’d searched the internet for the firefighters, too, the impulse too strong to fight. It hadn’t been that hard to find them. The station number had been plastered all over the trucks at the scene. He’d found Sam Faurier’s social media accounts—which were, unfortunately, all private—along with a handful of work-related things. His graduation from the fire academy ten years earlier. A promotion to Station Seventeen’s rescue squad three years after that. Some ridiculous photos from a charity calendar.
Speaking ofphotos. Malachi had found a current shot of all the active firefighters and paramedics in the house, and it hadn’t been tough to find Faurier’s partner, one of only three women at Station Seventeen and the only Black woman, at that. Lucy de Costa, he thought as he turned the lighter over in his hand, once, then again. She’d only been a firefighter for three years. Malachi wondered how many fires she’d seen. How she felt when she ran inside burning buildings. Was she scared? Excited? Her social media accounts were private, too, but a deeper dive with the search engine on his laptop had yielded the interesting little nugget that she was the daughter of one of Remington Fire Department’s battalion chiefs. Fighting fires ran in her blood.
